


Brute

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Lingerie, M/M, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor comes over for a fight.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	Brute

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Melkor doesn’t need a key, which is good, because for all they’ve been through, Mairon won’t give him one, but it doesn’t matter, because Mairon leaves the door unlocked on nights where he’s amenable. It’s a dangerous, reckless notion, especially in the part of town where they reside, but Mairon’s always loved flirting with danger. Woe betides the fool who breaks into Mairon’s apartment unannounced. Melkor silently twists the handle in the dead of night, pleased to see the door smoothly part for him. It’s an open invitation that he readily takes. He’s careful shutting it behind him, equally as cautious creeping across the floor—he doesn’t make a sound. 

He makes it all the way to the bedroom without stirring the apartment’s owner, though the baby dragon curled up by the hearth in the living room does glance over at him when he passes. It keeps its jaw closed, though it would burn any other intruder alive. It’s loyal to its master: the one who birthed it from flames, but no creature of the dark dares lift a hand—or claw—against Melkor. The tiny fledgling—which will one day be a mighty foe that could flatten half the city—blinks its golden eyes shut and curls back around its spiky tail. Its leathery wings flap against its side. Melkor moves past it and grins at finding the bedroom door ajar.

He slips in without waking his lover. There’s a moment where he’s still, hovering by the bed, staring down at it in the pale moonlight through the drawn-open curtains. Mairon’s strewn gracefully across the mattress, his shimmering red-yellow hair fanning out along his pillow, his pale arms tucked against his slender chest but his long legs fully extended. The blankets have been kicked aside, as they almost always are, because Mairon has particularly vivid dreams that tend to fan his flames. He often wakes up in a puddle of sweat and slick between his legs, and sometimes whatever mess Melkor has left on him. The thin silver nightgown he wears is already tented in the front, and Melkor can see his perked nipples straining at the delicate fabric. One trim strap has tumbled down his freckled shoulder, the lower hemline bunched up around his flushed thighs. He’s a pretty sight, made prettier by his choice of nightwear—something Melkor’s quite looking forward to ripping off of him. 

Melkor pulls his belt out of the loops and drops it to the floor, but he doesn’t bother discarding the rest. There’s something thrilling about the contrast: him fully dressed, still with his jewelry, resplendent and expensive, while tiny scraps of sheer lace desperately try to cover Mairon’s exposed body. Melkor enjoys running his fingers along Mairon’s leg, grazing the softness of his inner thigh, ducking up beneath his skirt—and then Melkor can’t hold himself back any longer and finds himself cocooned around his lover, teeth open across the back of Mairon’s neck. Mairon gasps in a familiar mixture of pleasure/pain as Melkor bites down into him, suddenly forced awake.

Melkor grinds the heel of his palm across Mairon’s crotch, delighted to feel the thin strip of barely-there fabric that functions as underwear. Melkor traces along the top to the string holding up the sides, clearly tied in a neat little bow. Melkor makes short work of plucking that bow loose as his other hand greedily claws at Mairon’s chest. Mairon makes a noise of obvious distress and strains into his touch. 

But then Mairon is squirming too much, and before Melkor can scold him for it, he’s rolled over in Melkor’s arms. He crawls away, pushing Melkor back, glaring up through the dim light as though Melkor’s a cruel prowler instead of Mairon’s beloved master. Unimpressed, Melkor digs his claws into the nightgown and jerks Mairon closer, forcing a bruising kiss. Mairon’s protest is muffled put palpable—he twists away again. As soon as his mouth is free, he hisses, “Stop it.”

Melkor goes stiff with surprise. Mairon’s glare is nothing new, but his efforts to escape are. He removes Melkor’s hand from his gown and mutters, “If you must do that, I have to change first...” Mairon tries to slip off the bed, but Melkor’s arm is around Mairon in a heartbeat, and he wrenches Mairon back. 

With a hitched grunt, Mairon’s slammed against Melkor’s chest. He grabs on to Melkor’s broad shoulder but doesn’t attempt to flee again. Instead, he looks challengingly up at Melkor, who coldly asks, “Why do you even own such tawdry clothing, if not to please me?” 

Mairon’s cheeks stain pink—always a lovely look on him. But the lingering irritation in his eyes is troubling; Mairon is such a little firecracker, and he usually prefers his master direct and rough. He bitterly counters, “I got it to please you.”

But he squirms again, only for Melkor to tug his hair—earning a gasp and instant obedience. It’s Mairon’s greatest weakness, at least in the bedroom. Melkor twists his fingers tighter around several silken strands and holds Mairon taut by it. He decides for both of them, “Then there is no need to change. I like the look of this on you, and you will wear it for me.”

Mairon’s sneer would kill a lesser being. Melkor is immune. He stands behind his command, until Mairon finally wanes and wilts. Only then does Melkor release the iron-clad grip on his hair. Mairon shudders and sighs exasperatedly. He admits, “You will ruin it.”

“I will do what I like with it—”

“You will do what you like with _me_ , but you do not seem to understand how costly yet delicate these pieces are. You absolutely _destroyed_ my favourite corset last week, and my best stockings the week before that, and last night you burned away my most expensive negligee. Not to mention the panties and garter belt underneath—I spent all morning trying to repair them, but nothing can be done with the ashes you left behind. All of my lingerie is of the highest quality, and it is incredibly _valuable_ , yet you treat it like—”

Another sharp hair-pull instantly ends Mairon’s tirade. Melkor cruelly reminds him, “I will treat it how I like, as I treat _you._ ” Mairon’s eyes flare. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, his breath coming harder, strained—the tent at his crotch hasn’t waned, but grown more pronounced. Melkor sneers, “You are correct that _none_ of your wardrobe has any value to me. Your best clothes are only pretty trinkets that adorn my true treasure, the only thing that I care enough not to _destroy_ : _you_.”

Mairon is silent in response. Melkor can practically hear his heart pounding away. When Melkor releases Mairon’s hair again, Mairon doesn’t relax. 

He hisses, “Damn you.” Then he’s lunging at Melkor, arms flying around Melkor’s neck, and he kisses Melkor so fiercely that Melkor is the one who almost gets his tongue burnt. He returns the kiss just as eagerly, hands once again roaming down, probing beneath Mairon’s nightwear, and he doesn’t think twice before tearing a slit right up the side. Mairon pursues one violent kiss after another, then scathingly insists, “You will buy me replacements, then. If you wish to see me this way, you will dress me yourself.”

“I will _undress_ you,” Melkor corrects, “For I like you best in nothing.” One swift tug, and the rest of the nightgown tears away. It falls into shreds around Melkor’s hand, and he tosses the remains aimlessly over the side of the bed, leaving his gorgeous lover in nothing but a tiny pair of panties that don’t look as though they’ll contain Mairon’s straining cock much longer. 

Mairon doesn’t look amenable to the idea. But he yanks Melkor down on top of him anyway, and he guides Melkor to fuck him so hard that the neighbours pound angrily against the walls, until the dragon roars and silences all but his masters’ elated cries.


End file.
